


Body and Blood

by Egnirys_Cimredopyh



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Angst, Drow, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fictional Religion & Theology, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:13:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27760570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Egnirys_Cimredopyh/pseuds/Egnirys_Cimredopyh
Summary: For the Three Harbours of Awakening, the initiation process is but a part of the journey into their religion. For the young half-drow, it is a nightmare in the making.His utmost unmaking, his utmost doom.
Kudos: 2





	Body and Blood

_“Calzmyr,”_

The all-too-familiar voice echoed through Calzmyr’s mind as he arose from his deep slumber. As his white-lashed eyes fluttered open, the young man was greeted by the sight of a drow woman, her frame naturally thin and fraught with what life had put her through. 

Her name: Malafae T’sarran; his mother.

When the younger half-drow did not reply, the woman spoke his name once more. “Calzmyr,” she said, the name sliding off of her tongue as if it was something toxic. “It is morning time,” Malafae continued, standing from her seat beside Calzmyr’s bed. There was an urgency to the fellow drow’s voice - one that the young man was familiar with.

_His mother wanted something from him, and she wanted it right then._

A vile bubble of rage formed itself in Calzmyr’s chest, only to sizzle out and be replaced by a singular, powerful emotion.

_Fear._

The fear of his mother, the fear of what was to come. The half-drow knew full well what was to come for him, no matter how much he pretended such a fate was not coming for him. His fate, his initiation as a proper member of the Three Harbours of Awakening; the religion he had been born into.

As he rose from the bed, still in his night clothes, his mother walked out the door. “I expect you to be ready within the next fifteen minutes,” spoke the vile woman, closing the door behind her. Left alone in his cold room carved into the stone of the mountain the compound resided in, the half-drow stood on shaky feet, taking but a moment to steel himself before standing straight. His stride was to the mirror that stood in his room, nailed into the stone wall above his dresser. 

The face that stared back at him with sharp red eyes was a gaunt one, dark circles forming under his eyes. His skin was a dark violet, with hints of a darker blue undertone. As he reached up to touch his face, he analyzed the hands that touched. Long fingers, veiny hands, no sign of scarring. After all, Calzmyr was young; only an Alter. He had not participated in any sort of combat, nor would he until his initiation was completed.

That is, if he survived the trial. There was no true telling of what would happen to the young Alter, dare their God judge his soul to be unfit.

Eyes averted from the mirror, Calzmyr dressed himself in his clothing. A white button up and black slacks - simple clothing, as he was not necessarily part of the church as of yet. The aestheticism of the Three Harbors was reserved for the initiated members, leaving the Alters and Novices to dress plainly - in a fashion referred to as “unveiled.” He put on his shoes, simple leather ones made by someone from the church - as most, if not all of, their goods were.

Prepared for the day and what it would contain, the half-drow adjusted his collar before heading out the door.

\---

The brunette, half-elven woman tutted over young Calzmyr as she took his measurements, starting with the broadness that was his shoulders. While the half-drow was thin, much like many other drow men, his shoulders were broad - powerful, in a sense. If he were to become more muscular, taller even, he would have cast a foreboding, threatening shadow upon the world. Such a fact was no doubt on the seamstress’s mind as she took her time measuring him.

“My, Child, how frail you are.” She continued to fret over him as she looked him up and down. “You need to put some meat on those bones.

Her words held true, however - Calzmyr was frail even for his young age. He was a thin lad, with no muscle definition to his body. As he stood facing the mirror once again, it accented such a fact - drilled it into his mind.

_Calzmyr was weak._

His mother had let him in on the fact many a time, mocking him for his weakness. For Calzmyr was only a child to the Three Harbours, yet meant for something greater according to Malafae. She would never let him forget that - how he needed to become powerful, to metamorphosize into something completely different than how he truly was. It was shameful - his current, unchanged form. As he looked away, now turning his attention to the seamstress as she now measured his waist, he wondered what it was like to be powerful.

Even in unveiled clothing, the tailor’s appearance was that of a strong one - muscular. Years of hard, dangerous work put into the church, and it showed. Even her hands showed the power that she held, even if she was a relatively low-ranking member of the church. The mere thought made Calzmyr’s breath catch in his throat - a shameful action, one that filled him with such a horrid emotion. He was so invariably jealous, that someone like the seamstress was able to hold such power. What did this woman think she was - anything greater than what his future held for him?

One could only wonder.

“It would be a shame if your soul is unfit,” she said after minutes of silence. Calzmyr knew the risks of the observation in his honor, just as she did. Though the woman knew far more than he did; with personal experience came personal knowledge. “From what they tell me, you’ll be the only one partaking in the initiation on that day.” A frown filled the woman’s wrinkled face. “Such a shame, really, to be alone on such an important day.”

Yet, Calzmyr had always been alone - isolated by the world around him. He was too weak, too frail, too much of an outsider to truly relate to the people around him. Even with being born into the compound, he had a lack of social skills from the very beginning. This was no doubt spurred onwards by his dear mother, a cruel and callous woman who took out her life’s sorrow on her only son. He had never known his father, with rumors of him being an outsider to the church drawing him even further away from his peers.

What kind of horrid creature was he, a half-blood in more ways than one? What kind of person was his mother, to dare interlope with someone from the outside?  
  
No one had the answer for that - certainly not Calzmyr.

His mother’s wrongdoings had put them both in a tough spot, with Calzmyr suffering the worst of it. It was by the graces of their god that he was allowed to stay, with the assumption that the bastard child would be inducted as early as possible. While other half-elves would have waited until they were around a more elven age of maturity to participate, the half-drow was ready for his induction at the tender age of nineteen.

If only he could have waited like the others. If only he could have been the others - been someone else, free of his mother, free of the Three Harbours. 

Free to live his life as he willed it.

Even then, in his will to be free, Calzmyr craved the power that the Three Harbours could give him. He craved the ability to become the utmost powerful.

_To prove Malafae, that horrid woman, wrong._

Ever-looming over his dreams of grandeur, however, was the risk of his upcoming death. Even as this woman finished measuring his form, he was marked for death. If he was not fit, if his soul was deemed unworthy, he would die - plain and simple. He dreaded the idea, wholly and truthfully. As those around him told stories of great Alters and Novices past that had died in the process, he could feel nothing but the loathsome emotion of fear.

_What if he died? Never to experience his great coming dream of power._

As young Calzmyr thought, he was tapped on the shoulder by the seamstress that had been alone in the room with him for some time. She had been waiting patiently as the young one ruminated over his thoughts for some time. She spoke in a soft, motherly voice.

“Child, you are finished. Come now, let me take you to your mother.”

\---

Months had come and gone since Calzmyr’s time with the seamstress, of whom had been planning the design of his garb ever since, alongside many others. It was a busy life, but one well spent in honor of their God.

For Calzmyr, however, life was much different. Months of hardship, months of preparing for his coming doom. He was ready to die, so he would tell himself, at the hands of their god. At least then he would be free - free from his mother, free from the church.

_Free._

But fate would never be on his side - would never give into his ill begotten desires.

The half-drow was led through the halls of the church building, headed towards one of the smaller rooms that lined the basement floor, set into the side of the mountain. His heart pounded in his chest with each step he took, its rhythm irregular with the anxiety that pumped through his veins like a corrosive venom. What awaited him in the belly of the beast, where they were taking him?

Alas, he already knew the answer - his initiation garb, his funeral outfit. Yet, even then, the anxiety that came from months of psychological torment rushed through his mind as he approached those beckoning doors.

How many times had he been told that he would die as he beseeched the will of their utmost god? How many times was he scorned for seeking power for himself, some sort of agency to make the fear leave him be?  
It never worked; never would work. Calzmyr was alone in this world, after all - fate would not allow him such an easy way out of his plight. His only escape was to face it head on - like a proper follower of His Eminence. 

The door was pulled open by one of the procession of seamstresses following behind him, and Calzmyr entered the room after her. In the center of the room stood a stuffed, cloth mannequin of his exact height and width. From the measurements, he supposed as he looked at it - clad in the black outfit he would wear to his initiation. 

The pauldron on the right side of its shoulders was what caught his attention first, clad in black leather with a cape hanging down from it. He stepped forward to touch the creation, reaching out with hesitant hands. The spikes that jutted out from the top layer of the leather pauldron, the black leather that had been used to craft such a thing - no doubt made from sheepskin. It gave off a vibe of power, of the formidable might that Calzmyr so desired. Knowing that it was his made him feel… strange.

His heart skipped a beat, threatening to leap forth from his agape mouth, at the thought of appearing powerful. A terrifying visage to his enemies, a sight of power to his allies. A role to fulfill, blessed upon him by the creators who had crafted this visage for so many months. 

A smile crept up on Calzmyr’s face. All along, this was what he had wanted, as his gaze shifted from the pauldron to the cape. The red velvet on the inside, the black on the outside. He reached to touch it, too. Took it between his fingers, testing the fabric with an expression of awe. The cape was draped across the non-dominant arm, leaving his dominant arm free to move about. Combat convenience, he noted, much like everyone else’s initiation garb.

But this - this was his, and his only.

_“It’s perfect,”_

Spoke the young half-drow for the first time in what felt like ages. Anxiety replaced with pride; with power. With the will to push himself forward through the tormentous storm that was the ceremony of initiation. The black clothing would fit him well, strongly made and meant only for himself.

In this, he would be an angel of death, smiting the damned with forces unimaginable, granted upon him by their god. Such was Calzmyr’s imagination, his pride that he never knew he had yet was sleeping within him all along. Yet now it set itself alight at the sight. The hope that he would not die in his initiation - the hope that he would become something greater than the path set out before him.

“You do? Perfect!” Remarked the seamstress that was attending him first, already beginning to tut after the young man as he checked out the outfit, wearing the biggest smile she had ever seen on the young half-drow. Even if he hadn’t voiced his approval, such a smile was enough to let her know that he was pleased - far more pleased than he had ever been. It was perfect in all ways, it seemed.

“Would you like to try it on?”

“Yes, I would,” was all Calzmyr said.

And so it began, the arduous process of dressing the young man in the intricate blacks and reds of his veiled outfit. He was still frail, yet the outfit made him look and feel strong. Something to grow into, he noted as he tested out the stretchy, limber fabrics that made up the clothing he now wore. As he looked in the mirror, fully dressed, he swooped his cape using his right hand in a gentle, swaying motion. Then, he used his left hand to pretend to swing a sword.

This was the true Calzmyr T’sarran; who he was meant to be all along. Maybe, just maybe, fate did not view him so unfavorably after all.

“They will remember my name,” he muttered to himself. “All of them. I will make sure of it.”


End file.
